Tag Archives: Beverly Hills

DATING PTSD

DATING PTSD – And why its RAMPANT in LOS ANGELES!

Have you ever experienced what I call “dating PTSD”? Are you wondering what my whacky brain has come up with now, or do you totally get the direction I am heading in?

PTSD is an acronym for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Individuals who suffer from major traumatic incidences often develop PTSD, and sometimes, the traumatic memories can be triggered when situations occur where the individual is reminded of the past traumatic event. In reality, the mere fact of living in a city like Los Angeles likely has multiple instances of PTSD flashbacks on a daily basis, as life can be difficult in this city. But, for this story’s sake, I am only going to reference dating PTSD, because I believe that single people everywhere are ALL suffering from a form of dating PTSD on some level.

What the hell is dating PTSD?

Let’s face it: If you are still single, and you are actively looking for a partner to spend your life with, you likely have had to kiss your share of frogs. Kissing frogs has become an accepted rite of passage in modern life, making dating numerous potential partners in an effort to find true love, socially acceptable. It is kind of like the universe is giving you permission to kiss as many frogs as you need to in order to find your handsome prince. Because let’s face it—everyone, at the end of the day, still wants to end up living in their own version of a fairytale-destined-to-be-together romance of a relationship, where chivalry and passion will keep you in love when the going gets tough.

The only problem with this scenario is sometimes, some of the frogs we end up kissing, leave us with massive scars and wounds and traumatic emotional injuries that I believe result in dating PTSD. Sometimes when these distressing wounds from past relationships reappear or are even gently triggered, we run from a person and a potential relationship before we even give the person a fair shake.

I am betting you are all thinking now, hmm, maybe she does have a point here. I can only use my personal examples of my very own dating PTSD and point them out to you, which will hopefully make you ponder your own life and reconsider the way you are looking at a potential contender.

Let’s start with …Younger Cute Guy dating PTSD

Okay, at first you are excited that a younger, hot guy is besotted with you. Just when you decide that you might kiss this young tadpole and let him hang out with you on your lily pad, you suddenly have a flashback to when you dabbled your little-webbed toes into this pond before. Suddenly, you remember your past ‘younger cute guy’, who wondered what the small dimple in your thigh was, so you explained that regardless of how much you exercise, you have a few dimples of cellulite here and there. So, when he remarked that he had never seen that before, except on his mother’s and grandmother’s legs—him now admitting that he had only ever dated young model types—you and your cellulite dimples felt humiliated and insecure. You were therefore so worried about him noticing any more body imperfections that you pushed him off your lily pad and back into the pond before he had a chance to discover any of your other flaws.

So, this past traumatic moment—when it becomes a flashback after you meet another ‘younger cute guy’ who wants to take you out—results in dating PTSD, and you don’t even give your new suiter a chance.

Well, then there is the opposite… Older Dude dating PTSD

So, a handsome distinguished ‘older dude’ is checking you out at the gym. Finally, he musters up the courage to speak to you and inevitably asks you out. Okay, so he might be a little older than a guy you normally would date, but he is established, dapper, and drives a nice car. But, just when you rationalize the age difference knowing that you will be picked up in a Bentley and will have a fabulous dinner at Spago, your brain suddenly has a traumatic flashback to the previous ‘older dude’ you dated before. Suddenly you remember the waiter asking if you were his daughter, and then you flash back to having to read the menu to him when he forgot his glasses at home, and if that wasn’t enough, then you remember his long saggy balls and you literally gag on your own repressed thoughts.

So, without even giving this ‘older dude’ a chance, you call it off (or you might just wait until after the dinner at Spago, because… it is, after all, SPAGO!) – the result, ‘Older Dude’ dating PTSD

Just think about it, I bet you have tons of dating PTSD examples from your own life. Dating PTSD happens a lot, and when we meet someone who has a characteristic from someone in our painful past, sometimes we just PASS on this person before giving them a chance.

Here are some more examples, in case you are still perplexed, of Dating PTSD!

I dated a Scorpio before, and he was a cheater. PASS! Astrology-dating PTSD!

I dated an Investment Banker before, he was a player and a womanizer! PASS! Career-Choice-dating PTSD!

I dated an Actor before, and I got tired of paying for everything! PASS! Struggling-Actor-Director-Writer-Producer Hollywood-dating PTSD!

I dated a guy who was separated from his wife before, but it turns out she was out of the country, and they were only separated by an ocean. He was a married-cheater! PASS! Separated-man-dating PTSD!

I dated a guy with kids before, and his kids blamed me for ruining their parents’ relationship—even though I met him five years after his divorce—because me being in the picture was, in his kids’ minds, the only thing keeping their parents from getting back together. PASS! Divorced-dad-dating PTSD!

So, you see, with the prevalence of dating PTSD definitely on the rise, especially with the preponderance of the acceptance of serial-societal-frog-kissing, the dating pool is dwindling before our very eyes. Why?!? Because when we fish in the dating pool, and when we catch a fish that resembles one that previously left a bad taste in our mouth, instead of maybe giving that fish a chance—and perhaps baking it instead of frying it—we throw it back because the PTSD memory is so strong, that we don’t want to chance ever tasting that bad fish again.

THE Result! Everyone is still single!!!

So, the moral of this dating PTSD story is:

Dating sucks, but if you don’t try and put your fishing pole into the dating pool of life, you better love your own company and enjoy talking to yourself. If you start to answer back, well, that is a subject for another blog.

Just because something looks similar, doesn’t mean it is similar. Hello! A fake Louis-Vuitton is sometimes almost identical to a real one, but a real Louis-Vuitton is worth the wait!

Instead of assuming you know someone based on a generalization or a past experience, maybe give them a chance before you throw them back into the dating pool. Familiarity breeds contempt, but shit, but giving someone a chance might be worth the risk if you find love in the end. Just a thought…

Please check out my book, Where the Dogs Go available at Amazon or Barnes and Nobles! For Dog Lovers EVERYWHERE! WOOF!!

Three Coins in a Fountain and a Janell

Three Coins in a Fountain and a Janell

Have you ever made a wish by tossing a coin into a fountain? There are famous fountains all over the world people have traveled to, for the sole purpose of throwing in a coin while simultaneously making a wish, hoping that wish will come true. One of the most famous fountains is the Trevi Fountain in Rome, a fountain that gained international attention with 20th Century Fox’s release of the movie called ‘Three Coins in a Fountain’, filmed in Rome in 1954. That movie revolved around three female-roommates who all tossed coins into the Trevi Fountain, hoping to find love. Although I have never seen the movie (but I will watch it now lol) the film’s legacy has become part of the history while visiting Trevi Fountain. When I was in Rome, I remember my tour guide pointing out to me—not only the historic significance of the very famous fountain—but also the fact that the famed film, ‘Three Coins in a Fountain’, was filmed there.

As a child, I remember tossing coins into a well on my farm, making grandiose wishes, expecting miracles to happen. Unfortunately for me, not one of my wishes was ever granted—the only result being a dwindled allowance short a few cents. Now that I think about it, not only were my well-wishes never granted, I don’t think that anything has ever transpired from one of the wishes I made after blowing out my candles on my birthday cake either. Maybe I am not a good wish maker? Regardless, I don’t think my lack of successful fountain-coin-tossing and cake-blowing wishes will result in a hopeless Janell. I still hold the fairytale-like belief that someday my Prince will come and that, if I desire something, I can manifest it. I guess no one ever told me that the manifestation would happen through hard work, and the magic in miracles comes from perseverance, effort and well, luck.

However, there is an undeniable beauty to a fountain, and there is something sweet about making a wish, to put a positive vibe out into the universe. Perhaps just taking the time to think about what you want, or the kindness in sending a heartful wish for another, might be all the magic that one needs to start to make the wish materialize. After all, everything is just energy in motion, so perhaps positive thoughts can actually manifest into reality?

Well, you can imagine my surprise, when I stumbled upon my very own Roman ‘Trevi-esque’ Fountain right in the heart of Beverly Hills. In between Crescent Drive and Rexford, just south of Burton Way, is an historic office building with a beautifully designed green space, complete with Roman Columns, and a magnificent round fountain whose basin is scattered with coins from local fountain-wishers.

How did I stumble upon this Roman magnificence in LA?

One night my girlfriend and I were walking home from a party on Rodeo Drive. It was a warm summer evening so we decided to walk the mile home as a refreshing alternative to crawling into the backseat of an Uber. As we were walking up Crescent drive, I noticed a small green space just before Burton Way, and I reasoned we could likely cut through it and save a bit of time. I never imagined that I would stumble upon a magical Roman enclave in the heart of Beverly Hills. The fountain had small lights illuminating it in the dark, and the columns were lit from below, making the overall feeling magical, to say the least. I couldn’t believe that I had been walking beside this little-hidden gem of architecture and beauty, not having ever ventured down the pathway before.

As we stood around marveling at the beauty we had discovered, I noticed that the water took on a turquoise color at night. Now, as it turns out, when I wear something turquoise, my eyes pop. So, I decided that maybe it would be fun to get some pictures of me by the fountain for my blog. My girlfriend, of course, obliged, and we snapped an assortment of Janell-Turquoise-Fountain shots before I decided that it might be fun to get some of me walking on the edge of the fountain.

Side note here…

I think it is important to mention before I continue that I had consumed alcohol at the party; in fact, I am sure I had enjoyed a couple of yummy cocktails, making my ‘walking on the edge of the fountain’ suggestion seem to make sense to both myself and my friend, who had also enjoyed her cocktails that evening.

Okay, so back to the story…

As I was standing on the ledge, trying to look as cute as I could, while simultaneously capturing the beauty of the turquoise water enhanced by the magic of the lights at night, and as I took one step forward, like a gymnast on a balance beam toes pointed and heels up in the air, with my arms to the side feeling full of elegance and grace, it should come as no surprise to you that, within seconds, my balance-beam move resulted in a faux-pas, and I fell sideways and plopped into the fountain.

One minute poised and pretty, the next second completely submerged in stinky, slimy fountain water. My friend gasped and said, “Oh my God Janell, are you okay?”

Well, I was okay. I was very lucky. I hadn’t hit my head or broken a bone when I fell. However, I was completely one hundred percent soaked, and the romper I was wearing had absorbed the fountain water at a record speed. My romper clung to my body like a wetsuit; imagine a wetsuit that was actually soaked and stuck to your skin. I was embarrassed, and I had no means to dry myself off, so a sopping and water-saturated me climbed out of the fountain, and we started to walk in the direction of the street.

I decided now was the time to call an Uber, and when our Uber arrived—after about 7 minutes of us waiting while my teeth chattered and I shook like a damp leaf—imagine the horror of the Uber driving pulling up, and noticing that I was dripping wet, declined me a ride. I tried to plead with him that it was only water, but he raced off before we could jump into his car.

So, I had to endure walking home, one mile in the dark, in soaking wet, slimy, and stinky clothes. I was freezing cold, and I remember feeling ever so grateful when the key to my front door finally unlocked me back into the safety of my home; the warmth of a warm shower, and my clothes haven been thrown in the wash for the night.

You know, now that I think of it, I should have made a ‘Janell wish’ when I was in the fountain. Who knows how much positive energy could have been emitted from the tossing of a human as opposed to a simple coin into a fountain? I guess I will never know. But for my friends out there who know me, I am sure you are not surprised to read this story. It really is just another dumb-ass Sagittarian klutz Janell move, moves I have been making since I was a kid.

Executive Producer Hollywood Seducer

Executive Producer, Hollywood Seducer

In Hollywood, Producers are famous for using their power and their positioning to tempt Hollywood hopefuls to engage in all sorts of sexual encounters. From the casting couch to call girls, Hollywood’s heavies leverage their power against the possibility that the desire to become an actress, or the need for financial support, will be a magnetic-power-pull that few manage to escape.

A few years ago, when I was between jobs, one of my best girlfriends – who was on a top rated Television show at the time – called me at the last minute and invited me to join her and her Executive Producer for lunch. Unfortunately – for me – last minute was literally last minute, as they had reservations at Spago in Beverly Hills at 1:00 pm and it was 12:50 pm when I received her call.

“But I am in jeans and a t-shirt and funky boots, I can’t go to Spago dressed like that! Do I have time to at least go home and change?” Girlfriend said it didn’t matter, she wanted to see me, and she said Executive Producer was a teddy bear and he could really help me out career-wise, so she instructed me to throw on some lip gloss and get my ass there; which I did.

Thank god jeans are always an acceptable LA Look, but I was more concerned that I was meeting my friend’s Boss – one who could hopefully help remedy the impending poverty that was staring me in the face – and I was worried about making a negative first impression. When the maître d pointed me in the direction of their table, imagine my surprise at seeing my gorgeous, dolled up girlfriend sitting with an older looking gentleman who was wearing jeans, cowboy boots and a cowboy hat. His curly blond hair protruded in a straggly disheveled way from under his hat, and his stomach hung over what I believe was also a large cowboy-buckled belt. His unkempt, non-LA-Look was initially a bit disconcerting, but it did put me at ease in my ‘errand running attire.’

A bottle of wine was already at the table, and as he poured me a glass while I perused the menu, Girlfriend and Executive Producer started to swap gossipy ‘set’ tales, and the conversation was amusing and fun. A few glasses of wine later, Executive Producer started to talk about marriage – specifically his marriage – and how, after 30 years of marriage and two kids, coupled with two successful careers that took him and his wife in different directions – he had spent the last 15 years of his marriage in a ‘sexless business union’.

As Executive Producer started to go into details about his ‘sexless marriage’, my mind started to drift off into a wine-induced daydreaming haze, starting to count in my head how many married men I had encountered since I moved to LA who, after a half an hour or so of innocuous conversational banter, somehow get to the inevitable crux of the dialogue letting it harmlessly spill that they are in a ‘sexless marriage’. A ‘sexless-miserable-unhappy-union from hell’ that they need to stay in because of the ‘kids’, or they can’t leave for ‘financial reasons’, whatever their sad tale is as to why they have to stay in a miserable marriage, it all paves the way for what they hope will be a smooth road for when they… hit on me.

I was starting to wonder if I were to ask the wives of the all miserable married men that hit on me, if they believed that they were in a ‘sexless marriage’ and wondered if the answer would be no, when I heard a comment coming out of the mouth of Executive Producer that instantly stopped my wine-induced daydreaming haze.

“Yeah, well, it is what it is. But I like prostitutes, that’s how I deal with it.

Did EXECUTIVE PRODUCER say… PROSTITUTES?

Prostitutes! He said prostitute, not mistress, not girlfriend on the side, but PROSTITUTE. Girlfriend and I looked at each other, both a bit bewildered that Executive Producer had let something this personal and well, highly incriminating slip, and Girlfriend – who is not only a talented actress but is also a masterful digger-detector of the truth – got that look on her face, a look I knew only too well, one that implied that the prostitute conversation was anything but over. As Girlfriend perked up and implored Executive Producer for details – while simultaneously commandeering a waiter over to the table asking for a third bottle of wine – Executive Producer was more than happy to regale us with tales of his hooker happy hook-ups.

He told us that he met these girls in strip clubs, and picked them based on their athletic prowess and flexibility, and in general preferred girls from the ‘Eastern Bloc’ countries – Russian girls were his weakness. He told us that he kept three different girls on rotation (to reduce boredom I guess lol?) and when he went away for the weekends, or travelled for business, he would pay them $10,000 to accompany him.

He started to tell us vivid and explicit details describing each of the girls: their appearance, their body shape, how each of them were in bed, right down to the color of their pubic hair. It was a somewhat uncomfortable conversation to listen to, but at the same time hilarious. It turned out the Executive Producer was also a gifted story teller, and I bet if he tried he could write a script– a twisted script for sure – but hell, it would be hysterical.

My favorite story of the afternoon was in reference to an incident that happened when he was in Vegas with the Russian girl – who used to be a gymnast – and during one of their athletically inspired sexual romps, somehow a candle got knocked over and it started the curtains on fire. Let’s just say that when you cause a fire in Vegas, and an entire hotel is evacuated – and you and your ‘stripper-hooker-girlfriend’ are running naked in the halls with only a bed sheet around you both – then that is how you not only get kicked out of the Bellagio Hotel, but banned from the Bellagio for life. This story was so funny when he told it that I literally almost peed myself as I was laughing so hard.

Executive Producer went on to tell us that not only did these girls walk away from the trip with a fistful of cash, but as he travelled extensively, the girls got to see the world, eat in fine restaurants, and experience the best things in life that money could buy. He said that he felt like he was ‘doing them a favor, and making their lives better’. Plus on top of all of this, the icing on the cake was that they got to spend time with… him.

By this time it was 4:30 pm, and we were the only people left in the restaurant. I went home and literally passed out. I didn’t really give out much hope that the Executive Producer would help me find a job, but it had been an unforgettable, amusing, and in a dark way, a very insightful afternoon.

A few days later, I saw a missed call on my cell from a number that I didn’t recognize. When I called my voicemail, imagine my surprise when it was a message from Executive Producer – asking me if I wanted to meet him for dinner so that we could discuss my career possibilities. You know I got on the horn straight away to Girlfriend to ask her what to do. She told me to meet him, that he wasn’t a bad guy – prostitute proclivity aside – and that she had asked him to help me find a job.

After all, a girl has gotta eat!

I tried to change the dinner to a lunch, but as he was back working on the set, dinner it had to be. I met him at the Ivy on Robertson, and decided that as I had shown up to our first meeting in jeans that I should wear something more sophisticated, and chose a nice knee length cocktail dress. He, of course, was in jeans and a cowboy hat. We made idle chit-chat for a while, him asking me about my past jobs, and my career aspirations, and for a short while, I actually felt hopeful that this renegade cowboy of a Producer would throw a bone my way.

About 40 minutes into our meal, he transitioned the conversation to our lively lunch of the week past and told me that our discussion had made him ponder his ways. As he looked me in the eyes he said “You know, I am tired of keeping all these mindless bimbos on my payroll, I am at the point of my life where I want more than just sex. I want sex and great conversation.” And then he paused a bit and said “Well, what do you think?” I started to get the ‘Oh My God’ feeling in my stomach, and I am sure my eyes grew two sizes as I realized that he did want to throw a bone my way, but not just any bone… his bone, in the form of a big boner.

I sat their wide-eyed and silent, not sure what to say or do as this was my friend’s boss and I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize her relationship with him, so I said nothing. A minute or so of uncomfortable silent air space later, he said that he found me classy, sexy, had a great body, and I was intelligent and funny and that he could “Fuck my brains out and still talk to me in the morning.” He went on to say that he would pay my rent, buy me a new car, give me a credit card, basically whatever I wanted if I would agree to be his lover – his lover upon request.

My mind started to race as to how I was going to come out of this night unscathed. I somehow managed to compose myself, and in the sweetest voice I could muster I told him that I was flattered and complimented the hell out of him, but told him that I wasn’t interested in having an affair with him as he was a married man – and I was certain I would end up devastated – because I was sure that I would fall deeply in love him (puke!!!!), and I knew that he could never leave his wife – but if he was ever single to look me up.

I will be honest, I was pretty broke and it would have made my life a whole lot easier. But I have always been someone who needs to be into the guy, attracted to the guy, and even though we all slip morally sometimes, I still always lead with my heart and my heart wasn’t into riding this cowboy for even a second.

Shockingly, he didn’t give up. He tried several times over the years to lure me into his sexual web with offers of first class trips to exotic locations, and when I finally asked him why he kept trying when I always declined, he told me that… I was the only girl who had ever said NO to him.

So the moral of this story is….

I guess it is true, men do love the chase, and saying NO might ultimately get you what you want, or will protect you from what you don’t want.

When having sex with a gymnast, remove all flammables first.

What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas – only at a different hotel! Lol (and it ends up on my blog!)

Hope you enjoy this story! Don’t forget to pick up a copy of my book, Where the Dogs Go, by Janell Martin for all the Dog Lovers out there! It is a heartfelt story about the love between a dog and his human, reminding us that Love is the gift that the universe gives us! Kisses and Licks! http://www.WheretheDogsGo.com Also online at @amazon and @barnesandnoble

Hypocrites! Are you an LA Hypocrite?

Hypocrites! Are you an LA Hypocrite?

Hypocrites generally act in contradiction to their stated beliefs or feelings, or they pretend to possess virtues that they do not have. If you are scratching your head and need an example as to what I mean, imagine this scenario:

…So, if you say that you are a devoted husband, and your wife and kids are the most important, cherished gifts that life has given you…

…Yet, on a business trip to Las Vegas, when the booze kicks in and let’s not forget the ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’ mentality…

…And you end up in a sexual-tryst with a random stranger, who ends up being a disease-infected-stripper…

…If you then justify your actions by saying things like: I was drunk, I didn’t know what I was doing, it was just sex, shit happens, or what my wife doesn’t know won’t hurt her

…So, you decide to fix the situation by secretly asking your buddy to get antibiotics under his name…

…And shrug off any guilt about the cheating incident with the mentality of ‘no harm no foul’…

Then, not only are you a cheater, a scumbag, and a louse – you are a hypocrite. Your wife and your family are truly not as cherished as your proclaimed and pronounced; rather, your penis’s sense of satisfaction, or the desire to chart some uncharted territory, or a drunken-random-stranger-quickie, are all— at least momentarily— more important than your declaration of devotion.

The world is full of hypocrites, but as I live in Los Angeles, I decided to focus on, well, the things I Know… so here goes!

So how do you know if you fall into the LA Hypocrite category?

You ‘I heart Organic’ and you spend so much time shopping at Erewhon and Whole Foods that the tellers know your name. However, when eating out, you don’t think to ask the waiter at Spago if the salad is organic—you just trust the quality of food by the price of the entrée. Or, if you find yourself at El Coyote—where you know that nothing is going to be organic—yet, you happily chow down, then you are an organic hypocrite! (Oy vey, that is SO me)

If you are NOT Celiac or Gluten intolerant, yet you only eat Gluten free because, well, you think it’s healthier for you for some stupid reason, and you make a big deal about ONLY eating gluten-free to the chagrin of others; but when at Dodger Stadium, you can’t wait to chow down on a Dodger-Dog while watching the Dodgers play, then you are a fad hypocrite! As gluten isn’t your enemy, it’s a fair-weather frenemy!

If you applaud President (and I give him the title with my teeth gritted) Trump’s immigration reforms as necessary and a positive step for America, yet you complain when you can’t find any ‘cheap labor’ to mow your lawn, wash your car or clean your home…. Then you are a self-serving hypocrite.

If you think building a wall to keep the ‘bad hombres’ out of the country is the best idea since sliced bread, yet you don’t care how many Canadian snow-birds illegally extend their Visas, or how many cute Russian girls live stateside indefinitely without any paperwork, then you are a political hypocrite. Plus, differentiating based upon a race rather than an overall situation not only makes you a political hypocrite, but also a racist .

If you brag about the Lamborghini you drive, or your 10,000 square foot home in Bel Air, and like to engage in conversations complaining about your high tax-bracket; yet, you fail to tip the shampoo guy who washes your hair or you short-change the waitress in a restaurant thinking 10 percent is enough to tip for ‘that-kind’ of service, then you are a cheap-shit hypocrite. You aren’t a big spender, you’re a self-absorbed narcissist who only thinks of himself and a cheap-shit hypocrite.

If you tell everyone that you haven’t had any work done, and that you roll out of bed on any given day looking ‘fabulosa’ because ‘baby, you were born that way’; yet, you are constantly at the dermatologist’s getting Botox, fillers, and chemical peels to stave of signs of aging; then you’re are a dishonest hypocrite. When your insecurities cause you to lie, sorry, you end up becoming a dishonest hypocrite. Plus, we all know, you were not born with THOSE LIPS!

If you say you’re ‘environmentally friendly’, so you drive a Tesla or a Prius to help reduce carbon emissions, because you know that pollution is causing global warming, so, you are doing your part to save our Earth. Yet, if you still smoke cigarettes, then you are a dumb-ass hypocrite. On top of harming the lungs of those around you when you puff on your cigarettes, did you know that the pesticides and herbicides required to grow the fragile tobacco plants are harmful? They can leach into the ground, which inevitably makes its way to our water supply, and can be poisonous to humans and wildlife. Plus, if you are living in an area where Methyl Bromide— one of the pesticides used to grow tobacco plants— has not been banned, then guess what? Your cigarette is actually depleting the Ozone Layer. So, you are driving a car to help save the Ozone Layer, all the while depleting it with every puff of your cigarette! You are your own version of Alanis Morrissette’s song, ‘Isn’t it Ironic.’ If you might be guilty of driving up to the Chateau Marmont in your Tesla, and getting out and lighting up a cigarette, then guess what? You are a dumb-ass hypocrite.

Well, you get it, life everywhere is full of people who say one thing and do the opposite. So, think before you speak, investigate before you proclaim, and always try to walk at least ten feet in someone else’s shoes before you cast judgment.

Hey, we are all in this life together; maybe if we can try to be more open-minded, accepting of others differences, and respectful to all, then perhaps this world—and everyone and everything that lives on it— can start to heal.

Plus, who wants to be a hypocrite? As it kind of makes you suck as a human being.

PS… If you like dogs, please check out my first novel ‘Where the Dogs Go’ available the link is on my website, or you can go directly to http://www.WheretheDogsGo.com or get it online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble

Beverly Hills Freaky Frozen Faces

Beverly Hills Freaky Frozen Faces

Why would anyone have a frozen face in Beverly Hills? I mean, come on Janell, it’s hot in Beverly Hills. Are you sure you aren’t confusing your cities? Did you mean to say Brandon, Manitoba, Canada? Brandon, your former stomping grounds, a city where the daytime temperatures can hover at -40 degrees Celsius during the winter; a city whose weather report actually has frost alerts so the inhabitants know exactly how long their exposed skin can be outside before it actually freezes.

I mean, Brandon could have people with literally… Frozen Faces, and that would be Freaky!

HELL NO, I KNOW WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT!

In Beverly Hills we have a different sort of Freaky Frozen Faces. The majority of these Freaky Frozen Faces are sadly inflicted upon a few select groups of people: females, particularly ones over 35 years of age; self-absorbed men who want to stay youthful in order to attract women much younger than their years; or gay boys who live in West-Hollywood, where the pressure to stay looking young is fiercely woven into their culture of beauty. And how do these various demographic groups acquire their Freaky Frozen Faces look?

Check out a list of the Freaky Frozen Faces culprits listed below:

Botox… hey, I like a little Botox too. But, that expression ‘there is such a thing as too much’ can really be applicable when people overdo the Botox. When you put so much Botox in that you can’t move any parts of your forehead and you have zero smile lines around your eyes, then you have entered part-one of becoming part of the Freaky Frozen Faces crowd. Half your damn face can’t move! When the bottom half of your face has movement, and the upper half has none, its looks… freaky. Oy vey…

Fillers… hey, a little filler can go a long way. But when you put filler in your cheeks, and then add some to plump up your cheekbones, and add some to your chin, and then under your eyes, and anywhere else you might see a dot of exposed skin, guess what? You may think you look more youthful, because in youth we do have fuller, rounder faces. But if you put in too much of that shit in your face, your skin doesn’t move the same way. Not only do you have a Frozen Face, if you don’t go to a good doctor, you could also have a freaky frozen face. So, unless you want to walk around looking like a scary nightmare, be careful of how much Filler you put into your face, and WHO does your injections. Trust me — this look draws a fine line between ‘Beauty or Beast’!

So now, with your forehead not moving because of the Botox, and your face barely moving from the fillers, some people – and usually it is only women—decide to make their lips protrude in ways that lips were genetically not designed to do. For some reason, Beverly Hills has become the poster child for ‘Collagen/Filler enhanced lips.’ We are talking about lips that swell between 50 to 100 percent of their normal size, or even bigger; FISH LIPS! I am not sure how these massive fake Fish Lips have translated into a youthful look. I see tourists on Rodeo Drive staring at people whose lips appear to swallow up their faces. It looks weird. For some reason, the Fish Lip Phenomenon hasn’t spread across the country in the massive sweep that has taken over Beverly Hills. But in this city, it has become the new norm, a new norm of beauty. I don’t think it makes women look younger, just fucking weird.

Okay, so I guess the moral of this Freaky Frozen Faces story is…

A little goes a long way when it comes to cosmetic fillers and injectables. If you venture into these waters, err on the side of ‘less is more’.

Looking good and feeling good about yourself is important, and I am all about doing things to make you feel good about yourself. But remember, you can’t truly erase aging, so doing it gracefully—even with assistance –means quality NOT quantity.

And all of that being said, if any dermatologist wants to throw this girl some free Botox or Filler, I will gracefully accept as long as I can still move my face, and I still look like me at the end of the day. I have enough problems; I don’t want to add a FREAKY FROZEN FACE to my list of issues!

Kisses y’all! And these kisses are coming at you from my non-cosmetically-enhanced lips.

Dating the Broke Boy

Last week, I was having dinner with a work colleague, and our waiter – who was unbelievably cute and charming – was hitting on me. My colleague was egging me on to give him my number, and when I told him that I really didn’t want to date a waiter, he accused me of being a snob and an elitist.

So naturally, I felt the need to defend myself from his surly accusations. I started to explain that the waiters in LA are mostly all good looking, as the majority of them are struggling actors waiting for their ‘lucky break’; and if all I wanted was cute and hot, then I would be leaving my digits along with my tip at half of the eating establishments that I frequent.

As he shrugged his shoulders and said “Sooo cute and hot has to be better than NOTHING, and right now you have… NOTHING!” “Why not just enjoy what the universe is pointing in your direction, I mean, why not just date what is in front of you now?” I thought for a second, hesitating as I searched my mind for a way to explain to him why that didn’t work for me, and in an effort to clear up the snobby and elitist impression he had of me, I decided to tell him the story of – Harrison.

Harrison – the Broke Boy …

A few years ago, I kept running into this tall, handsome, athletically built man as we both walked our dogs around the same time each morning and night. It was hard to miss him and his scraggily dog, as each time we got close, his mangy mutt tried to kill my sweet little dog, Canoli.

Whenever our paths would cross, his dog would fiercely tug at his leash any time we got within 30 feet of them. Then, with his canine-teeth tightly clenched, he would hiss a loud warning hiss, until we were within chomping range, and the dog would bark ferociously and try to bite off bits of Canoli, as I desperately tried to pull Canoli the other direction – or carry him – in order to avoid a tragedy from occurring.

So, when I was picking up take-out one night, and when a handsome man at the bar gave me a wave, I was shocked as I got closer to discover that the wave had come from – the canine killer’s owner. He was definitely an attractive man, and as I sat beside him waiting for my order to arrive, our conversation went beyond our normal ‘how to keep our dogs from killing each other’ conversation. I found out that he was well educated, a Harvard Grad, and had a medical degree. His father was a famous physician who worked solely with Olympic athletes. There was a definite attraction between us, and by the time my food had arrived, he had my number.

He called the next day to see if I wanted to get together with him, and I decided that maybe an early happy hour at one of my favorite places at the time – The Hamburger Hamlet – would be an easy location to meet. Plus, happy hour meant that I would not be stuck with him the entire night if the date wasn’t going well. He thought the plan was great and I met him there two nights later.

The date went extremely well. We had an intellectual connection, a physical connection, we were playful together – the energy between us was magical. He told me that he had decided against becoming a doctor, and had a series of inventions and projects he was trying to get off the ground. I silently wondered who would go to medical school and decide not to practice medicine, but whatever – he was smart and hot!

He offered to drive me home – as I had taken a cab in anticipation of indulging in some happy hour libations – and even though I normally wouldn’t accept a ride with a virtual stranger, I made an exception as, I was already smitten. He had not valeted his car, which I found a bit odd as it was only $5 to valet during Happy Hour, and instead we walked to his car.

‘Maybe it was a fancy car that he didn’t want the valet to ding’ I thought to myself as we walked the two blocks to his car – hand in hand – me barely able to wait for my first kiss. As we approached a late model Ford Explorer – one that looked like it had been torched in an accident yet somehow was still drivable – I was shocked when he stopped at it. He then very chivalrously went and opened the passenger door for me to enter. However, even though he opened the door for me, he still had to crawl in first, as that was the only way to access the drivers’ side of the car, as the driver’s door lock was also broken.

I was now really perplexed. A well-educated man, with a wealthy dad, who was driving a ‘beyond a beater’ of a car – something didn’t fit right in my mind. But I was attracted, intrigued, and the good-night kiss was magical.

Over the next month, I got to know Harrison. He was eccentric and brilliant, but at 38 he was still chasing his tail and he had finally come clean with me that his father gave him a monthly allowance that he lived off of. (Ewe!) The allowance paid his rent, and money for food, but it just covered the basics.

So, we spent most of the time at my place (as he lived, as it turned out, in a small studio apartment). Let’s just say my cooking skills increased dramatically that month, I caught up on all of my movies I had Tivo’d, and hiking became our new ‘shared activity’. I had accepted the fact that I was dating a broke boy, but at least he embodied a hot and sexy kind of a broke boy.

After about 4 weeks of playing house, I was getting cabin fever and really wanted a night out, and as he had just received his monthly allowance he said that he, too, was excited to go out, and he wanted to treat me to dinner at his favorite restaurant. As such, I got glammed up, excited for an evening out.

As we pulled up to Molly Malone’s Irish Pub – me in a cocktail dress and high heels – I wondered why the hell he hadn’t mentioned to me that we were going to a casual pub when he saw how I was dressed? Regardless, I didn’t make a fuss, even when we looked at the menu and he said that he had enough money for us to either each get a burger and fries, or we could split a burger and he could have a beer and I could get a wine. Splitting a burger – past the age of 16 errrr – seemed a bit lame, but I decided that I really needed alcohol or I wasn’t going to make it through the date.

Okay, so I am definitely not a ‘gimme gimme’ kind of girl. But that night, when I went home I started to mentally calculate how much I had spent the past month on extra groceries, and how much I had splurged on paying for New Release movies from On Demand, I started to get a little pissed and annoyed as the scales of fairness were definitely tipping in his favor. Regardless, I decided to continue to see him – my broke boy – as I did like him, and wished that one of his ‘big projects’ might take off as he had hoped. But this night had left me thinking and, whether I realized it or not, I was starting to keep a list in my head of ‘reasons to flee’ this broke boy kind of a list.

The next thing that made the ‘reasons to flee list’ was the night that he came over – on the late side – as he said he had been feeling sick all day. As he cuddled in next to me, he said some soup might make him feel better, and could I order him in some Won Ton Soup? I was a little irritated by his request, especially after he declined the Campbell’s Chicken and Rice Soup I had on hand, but I started to call my favorite Chinese Food Take Out place. As he heard me on the phone he said, “No, no, I don’t want it from there, I want it from Xian.”

All I could think was ‘Okay you broke fucker, you come over ‘sick’ wanting Won Ton Soup, and now my dive bar Chinese Food place isn’t good enough for your broke boy ass? You want me to spring for Xian from Beverly Fucking Hills?’ and I gave him a nasty look and said “Too late, it’s on it way.” (Seriously, WTF!)

His broke boy ass had now been escalated to the critical level on my ‘reasons to flee SHIT list’ and I felt incredibly taken advantage of at that moment.

A few days later, we had plans to watch the Lakers Game together. Now don’t get too excited, we weren’t watching it at the Staples Center, or even in a bar, but at my house AGAIN, with me picking up food on my way home from work so broke boy could enjoy his favorite snacks and beer during the game. I got everything ready, and before I knew it the game had started. I called to see where he was, texted, and there was no response.

By the time the game was over, I was so upset wondering where the fuck he was, that I had drank about two thirds of a bottle of Cabernet by myself. As the game ended, the phone rang, and Harrison was on his way over. He had decided, last minute he professed, to watch the game with a friend. You know, I wouldn’t have cared if he had wanted to watch it with his friend, but to make plans with me and to have so little respect for me to not even call and cancel, or to have done the right thing and made plans to see his friend another time, put the final nail in the coffin on my ‘reasons to flee’ list.

By the time the doorbell rang, Harrison didn’t know it but this broke boy was–DONE!!

As he entered, I had a go at him, and hurled repressed and hurt feelings from the past 8 week of dating as to why this little song and dance was ending: “You dissed me, you disrespected my time.” “You disrespected me by not calling; I could have made my own plans!” “You fucked up!”

Then the soup thing came up, and the split hamburger thing came up, and the amount of money I had spent came up, and then for my ‘piece de resistance’ I said:

“You know, Harrison, I don’t know what we were even thinking. Our dogs can’t be in the same room together without your mangy mutt trying to kill my precious, sweet, and innocent little pure bread doggie! And guess what, he wouldn’t want to kill Canoli if his testosterone filled testicles weren’t dangling and flailing about. You are an irresponsible dog owner for not neutering your dog – or were you planning to breed that mutt?”

Damn, I went for the jugular – I was horrible, I felt ashamed of myself after he left. I tried to emasculate him and his dog in one fell swoop. I was like a volcano that had been building up for thousands of years and finally blew. I had officially annihilated Harrison’s Broke Boy butt!

And of course, that was the last I saw of Harrison, and Canoli and I started to walk in a new direction to avoid him. I realized at this point that I was no longer dating surfer boys, broke boys, or super-hot boys just because they were super-hot boys;I was only dating men that were really potential partners who fit in with my life. I needed a man who had a direction, a purpose, and a solid plan. I came to the realization that I worked too hard to be with someone who didn’t have their shit together.

Now….Back to my dinner with my colleague….

After I finished my long winded diatribe to alter my colleague elitist’s summarization of my character, he simply stated that he ‘Got it.’ I am not sure if really got it, or if he just never wanted an explanation of any kind from me ever again.

And the moral of this Broke Boy story is….

Only date men who have their shit together mentally and emotionally, and who are financially headed in an upward direction; otherwise, you will get stuck in their shit with them and unable to move forward in your own life.

While I don’t judge people on what they do for a living, our time on this planet is short, and sometimes it sucks to realize that what you need in for your life might not always make you politically correct; but if you don’t honor your needs first, then you are really dishonoring yourself.

And as my friend told me at the time, okay Janell …NO more, Tom, Dicks or Harry’s for you! Amen! (Double inside joke here for some of my friends out there!)

Beverly Hills Internist

Beverly Hills INTERNIST list of ‘Ist’s’

Living in Los Angeles, Hollywood and Beverly Hills means that when it comes to ‘ist’s, your lists of ist’s grows exponentially the longer you live here. In fact, it is shocking how many ‘ist’s’ the average person has in their rolodex. In a fast paced society, where the pressure to succeed is so fiercely interwoven into the framework of your existence, many people start out with only one ‘ist’ and end up a rolodex of ist’s.

What is an ‘ist’ and how do you acquire them? Check out a typical LA story of ‘ist’s’….. (NOTE: The story described below, is based on no one in particular, fabricated, but based on my observations of life and how easy it is to fall into something)

So… the pressure of your job, your mortgage, your car payment and your credit card debt – on top of your tumultuous personal relationship and iPhone full of flakey friends – has you stressed to the point that you start to develop headaches that become debilitating headaches. The headaches become so frequent that you start to worry that the above aforementioned are not the cause of your severe headaches. You decide that maybe you had better go see someone about it, so what do you do?

You go to see your INTERNIST…

Your INTERNIST wants to rule out the remote possibility that you have a brain tumor or aneurism so your INTERNIST sends you to see a NEUROLOGIST. The NEUROLOGIST send you for a MRI, and a few days later the RADIOLOGIST sends a report to your NEUROLOGIST who calls you with the good news that your brain is not going to explode into wee bits. However, in the three days it took for the RADIOLOGIST to read the results and let your NEUROLOGIST know that you weren’t headed to heaven, the stress of worrying about a possible brain tumor or aneurism explosion made your debilitating headaches become migraines so severe that no over the counter medication – even when doubled the recommended dose – can ease the pain.

So your NEUROLOGIST prescribes you with 600 milligram Ibuprofen; which literally takes away the headache pain, and shit – when you have a glass or two of wine with the Ibuprofen, you feel fucking amazing. So for a few months your headaches subside and you start to relax, and the Molotov cocktail you are now consuming seems to alleviate all sorts of problems. But then…..You start to have difficulty swallowing and you have serious acid reflux. So what do you do?

You go back to your INTERNIST ….

Your INTERNIST wonders if maybe the stress mixed with the prescription medication mixed with the wine might be causing you to have gastric issues, so your INTERNIST sends you to see a GASTROENTEROLOGIST. The GASTROENTEROLOGIST decides you need to have a scope done to see what the hell is going on, and then next thing you know you being strapped to a gurney and an ANESTESIOLOGIST – who looks like he just came home from the club and came straight into the ER – is about to inject you with Propofol. You start to worry because Propofol killed Michael Jackson – and as you make the ANESTESIOLOGIST promise to not kill you, you drift into what is referred to as a ‘mild sedation’. Mild Sedation my ass, you are out fucking cold; which is a good thing as who wants to remember the GASTROENTEROLOGIST cramming a big tube down your throat and cutting biopsy chunks out of your stomach?

Ten days later, the PATHOLOGIST sends your results to the GASTROENTEROLOGIST, and you go back into the GASTROENTEROLOGIST’s office for the results. He tells you that you have inflammation so severe that not even over the counter medication like Prilosec will work, and prescribes you with a prescription for Protonix. The GASTROENTEROLOGIST also send the report to your INTERNIST, who now thinks that maybe you need to talk to someone about your stress levels – as it seems to be the root of the problem – so your INTERNIST refers you to a THERAPIST.

Your THERAPIST, after a few sessions, decides that you have high anxiety – from all of the ‘stressors’ in your life – and instead of telling you to workout, sleep, meditate and relax, decides that you need to be evaluated by a PSYCHIATRIST because… you might need medication for your anxiety. The PSYCHIATRIST determines, in your 20 minute session, that Xanax will help your anxiety, and you leave with a prescription in hand.

It turns out the Xanax makes you fall asleep in a second, and you feel calm and life starts to feel good again. Even your THERAPIST comments on how much better you seem to be doing. The only problem is that you have to take more and more of the Xanax to sleep, and when you need two full bars of Xanax to fall asleep every night – and when the PSYCHIATRIST won’t increase your dosage any higher – you decide to add a glass of wine to the mix. And guess what? That works for a while.

Until one night, after you have been out for the evening and had a couple of glasses of wine, and then take your 2 bars of Xanax before you go to bed, you get up in the night to pee and are so loopy that you run into a wall and crack your front tooth.

Now, you find yourself with your DENTIST, who refers you to a PROSTHODONTIST who can hopefully save your tooth and apply a veneer. The PROSTHODONTIST, thank God, can fix the tooth, but thinks you need veneers on the front four teeth as your smile will be weird with only one veneer. And, OMG living in the bubble of Hollywood with one weird tooth will throw off your whole look, so you gut up and pay to have the other three teeth fixed to match the one cracked tooth. The good news is that your smile looks great; the bad news is that the porcelain veneers are about $1500 each, and now your credit card debt is through the roof and your stress levels elevate even more.

And guess what? Even with the Xanax, the Protonix, and the Ibuprofen your headaches come back. So, what do you do?

You go back to your INTERNIST.

Your INTERNIST now determines that the PSYCHIATRIST you saw is turning your into a drug addict, so recommends you see a PSYCHOPHARMACOLOGIST, who comes highly recommended. The PSYCHOPHARMACOLOGIST (which is just another bullshit name for PSYCHIATRIST) thinks that you either need to wean yourself off the Xanax and wine, or better yet, check yourself into rehab for a month. Gosh, the sound of a month off of your life sounds pretty great right about now, and you start contemplating the 30 day treatment program. Until you find out that your insurance doesn’t pay for rehab – and you don’t have $30,000 to spare – so you decide to wean yourself off of the Xanax with the assistance of your PSYCHOPHARMACOLOGIST.

As your PSYCHOPHARMACOLOGIST cuts down your Xanax bit by bit, your sleep is greatly interrupted and you start to get run down and look worn. A well-meaning friend thinks that perhaps you should get a facial, so recommends her FACIALIST to you. The FACIALIST cleans your pores and exfoliates your face – which now glows – but you still look like you have been beaten up by an ugly stick from exhaustion. The FACIALIST recommends that perhaps you talk to a DERMATOLOGIST about getting some fillers to freshen up your look.

One of your girlfriends swears by her DERMATOLOGIST, so you go and see him. The DERMATOLOGIST thinks that a little Botox on your forehead and around the eyes would be his first recommendation, and if you have enough cash maybe some Voluma in your cheeks to fill out your face, and some Juvederm in your lips will give you an all-around more youthful appearance. So out of vanity – and likely bad decision making skills from the lack of sleep – you haul out your credit card and go for it all.

An hour later, looking in the mirror, you want to cry because you look like a Pufferfish. But the DERMATOLOGIST swears that once the swelling and bruising dissipate that you will be looking youthful and refreshed. So for the next ten days you swallow Arnica to help the bruising heal quicker and hide from society as much as possible, because it takes that long for all of the bruising and swelling to go away.

Finally, you are healed, and your face does look fuller, and the Botox has smoothed out your lines, but the shit that he put in your lips makes your lips protrude and you look like are constantly pursing your lips. Fuck, the lips looks weird, the lips look really weird. So what do you do?

You go back to the DERMATOLOGIST.

The DERMATOLOGIST thinks you look great, but tells you not to worry because the $5000 you just spend will slowly dissolve into your body. You are freaked out when you realize that this shit is going to seep into your cells – but at least your lips will at some point return to normal – and hopefully by that time, you will have completely weaned yourself off the Xanax, and once again be able to sleep and look like your normal self.

So in the interim, you go to your HAIRSTYLIST to see if she can style your hair in a new way to detract from your fish lips. After a hour or so of playing with your hair, she honestly tells you that nothing she can do will detract from the lips – but at least you leave with an awesome blowout – and your HAIRSTYLIST suggests that you go to Mac on Robertson Boulevard to see if one of the Make-Up ARTISTS there can suggest ways to use make-up to minimize your lips for the next few months.

The Mac Make-Up ARTIST is quite helpful, and gives you a make-over, and $350 later you leave with a whole new bag of make-up. And Goddamnit – you look pretty darn good even with your swollen fish lips. So, for the first time in several months, you actually feel relatively good about yourself. So you walk across the street and stop at Intermix, where the in-house STYLIST picks out a new dress for you, and you head home feeling cute and broke.

Cute….at least your feel cute.

And within a few months, you are off the Xanax. You have slowed down on the wine, so you don’t need the Protonix anymore, and your lips – halleluiah – are back to normal. And for the first time in a long time your life seems pretty good.

The pressure of your job, your mortgage, your car payment haven’t seemed important after all you have been through, you are just grateful that you still have them. And even though your credit card debt is through the roof, you have tons of air miles now – at least that is some consolation. Plus you have been so consumed with all of your drama that you haven’t had time to worry about personal relationships or flakey friends at all. Life is getting better.

UNTIL…..

And the funny truth to this story is…

Your simple life can go from having one IST to having a list of IST’S in a short time, especially in a city like Los Angeles…

It’s amazing how easy it is to fall into something, and how fucking complicated it can be to find your way back out the other side….

Just be happy I didn’t tell you the tale of the Gynecologist lists of ‘ist’s’! (Maybe I will, that might actually be hysterical…or gross…or both!)

A Gift Bag means parties, and parties make me fall in love again with LA, – especially on days when the hectic-frenetic LA life is getting to me. Why do I LOVE going to parties? Because in LA that generally means…

Some sort of libation will be FREEly poured…(notice I said FREE-ly)

Nibblies of some sort will be passed….(not enough to skip a meal or you will need to hit In-N-Out on the way home)

A diverse variety of ‘invited guests’ – (‘Invited’ puts everyone on a more ‘even playing field’ so people who would normally ignore you will say hello – welcome to LA-land folks !)

And Give-Away’s or a Gift Bag ……or best case scenario….BOTH!

Basically, to me, a party in LA means, as a single girl on a budget, that: I can drink for free, nibble for free, meet prospective dates or business contacts, and I leave with free loot! Not a bad way to spend an evening.

I recently attended a party at a medical/health/healing/beauty center – basically a business hosting a glamorous event in order to attract new clients. When I arrived at the event, the check-in girl informed me that they were going to be drawing names for various prizes, and asked if I had a business card to put it in the large glass fish bowl that was sitting on the check-in table. She pointed towards a placard that listed all of the wonderful prizes they were drawing at the end of the evening. Of course, I tossed in my card, and my observant blue eyes noticed directly behind the check-in table large bags stuffed with gift bags, that I knew would be moving closer to the door once the party was ending. So with the certainty of a parting gift bag, and the lure of perhaps winning a prize, I was decidedly staying until the end of the event.

As I was walking around sipping my champagne, keeping my eyes open for any one carrying a tray of something that I hoped would be edible – as I had run from work and was starving – checked out the services they offered, all the while scoping out the crowd to see who I deemed interesting enough to engage in a conversation with or maybe cute enough to date. About an hour and a half had passed, and the party patrons were starting to get anxious as the trays of nibblies and champagne had slowed to snails’ pace, yet no one was wanting to leave as everyone had placed a business card in the glass fish bowl – and if I had spotted the gift bags – I am sure they had as well.

Finally, the owner got to the podium, mic in hand, and thanked everyone for coming, and yada yada yada…at this point I wasn’t paying attention, my mind was wandering, actually doing a ‘double- wander’….wondering what might be in the gift bags and also wondering if I had a Amy’s frozen Mac and Cheese at home because I was starving! As the owner was about to pull names from the glass fish bowl, his fingers playing with the cards in the bowl as he spoke, the room started to quiet down, even the mind wanderers like me started to pay attention, as a list of the prizes being given away listed on what should have been titled the ‘BRIBE PLACARD’ had definitely kept everyone interested – or at least feigning interest – and a captive audience at best for the entire evening.

You see, in Los Angeles, you can’t survive if you are just a health center or a wellness center….Eastern Medicine meets Western Medicine just isn’t enough….you need to also offer beauty services, like Botox and fillers, and peels and lasers. Los Angelites, especially Beverly Hills peeps, are as interested in being physically healthy as they are in having healthy plump lips. I know, I know….I know….shallow…but it is what it is. Well, just call me shallow Janell, because I was wondering if the Endermologie treatment would really take away cellulite, and I was sure I could find use for free Juvederm.

As the prizes were announced and the winner’s card drawn, the lucky winner sprinted to the podium to get their certificates for: a massage, a facial, Botox, Juvederm, a laser peel, infrared sauna therapy sessions and Endermologie treatments. I was shocked when I heard my name called, and eagerly started to make my way from the back through the sea of people to the front of the podium. I was so excited for my win, that I failed to hear what I had won. When I thanked the owner and looked down at my certificate it was for “One Colonics Session”.

C-O-L-O-N-I-C-S!!!!! Seriously? I won an hour session to have someone stick a hose up my butt and pump gallons of water through it and then watch the poop and crud infested water came back out of my butt? SERIOUSLY? As I stood there silent, a host of emotions raced through my head and likely simultaneously showed up on my face – fear, shock, embarrassment having had won this prize, more fear, and then an overall feeling of being ungrateful to the universe as I was a winner, and that was something to be thankful for . As I started to wonder if somehow I could ‘exchange’ my prize for something less, how can you say, ‘less invasive’, a warm hand touched my shoulder and woke me out of my stupefaction-mind-bending thoughts and said…. “Hi, my name is Rose, and I am going to be your technician for your session. Do you want to take a look at the room?”

I turned and took my first look at what I now deemed was to be my torturer. Rose, was a soft looking, kind faced, plump, middle aged woman; she wore her hair loosely tied back in a ponytail, hair strands tousled around her warm, kind face. She had an energy about her, the kind of energy that you bond with instantaneously – the kind of woman you could fall into her arms and sob as you told her stories about the boy who broke your heart – the kind of woman you would basically trust with your inner most secrets, and I guess…..in this case with… your butt-hole!

I followed her, silently, like I was blindly following a cult leader into what they called the ‘Colonics Session Therapy Room’. The designer-designed room – pastel walls, velvety corner chair, soft music with wafts of vanilla floating in the air – all meant to detract from the obvious – was ‘obviously’ not lost on me. The medical bed in the center of the room (equipped with the little feet holders that you use when you are getting your yearly pap smear), the long white THICK hose that wound its self around a long metal stand (yards and yards of it), the massive wall chart of the human bowel tract, the metal surgery like table with stainless steel bowls on it – made me feel like a medieval torture chamber had met a Beverly Hills designer and this was the result.

As Rose was talking and pointing everything out I was silently looking and listening, then…. I suddenly blurted out… “You know, I really eat a lot of fiber, I go at least once a day sometimes more, I am pretty sure my colon is as clean as a whistle.” (Seriously…I said that…as clean as a whistle) At which point she started to tap on my tight taut (extra taut as I was holding my gut in) stomach and said “Oh no, there’s work to be done in there…I can tell!”

Room tour finally done, I politely thanked her, and said I was excited for my session, and made my way back to the party and through the now sparse crowd, but not so fast as to not grab my gift bag on the way.

Finally…… happy to be home, Amy’s Mac and Cheese heating up in the microwave, gift bag torn apart to see if there was any good loot, and the Colonics certificate filed in my ‘free shit folder’, until that time ………..when…..

When……..

I think gee, maybe I can ‘re-gift this’ (NOT)!….

I am ready for that ‘date’ where I want to make sure my stomach is completely flat…… (Think starving myself will be my first, second and third option)!…..

Or when I am desperate for a blog post and decide to use my certificate so I have a story to tell….

#Hollywood Celebrities – Giant Rock Star …..

…as I nuzzled in beside him, close but not so close as to offend this GIANT ROCK STAR of a man, a man who was generous enough to let me have a photo of the two of us, and as his assistant prepared to take our picture, Giant Rock Star grabbed me and pulled me in towards him face forward and planted a big one smack on my lips as his assistant snagged the shot….

CUT TO……the beginning…..

One of my true besties in real life happens to be a Famous Actress, so when she asked me to be her plus one when she was a guest star on Hell’s Kitchen, I jumped at the chance, as – not only do I love spending time with her – but, the offer of a free hot gourmet meal coupled with front row seats to watch Gordon Ramsey scream and terrorize people in person, was… irresistible.

The day of the taping, we arrived and were escorted to the green room – a room fully plied with snacks, drinks and of course alcoholic beverages – where we were mic’d for sound and where we signed binding agreements that any footage or any recorded verbal commentary from us could be used at the discretion of Hell’s Kitchen for basically…. eternity. This quickly led to us forming a pact between us: that we would be careful not to say anything stupid or life altering in any way about each other so as to do irrevocable damage however unintentional – a pact that was sure to be tested with the alcohol that they had already given us to drink.

It was a Rock Star themed night, Famous Actress had been invited to participate because what is a Rock Star, after all, without a gorgeous, hot babe? We recognized several of the Rock Stars in the green room, and happily chatted with them sipping our wine waiting for the taping to begin; me secretly pinching myself that I was hobnobbing a room with these amazing Gods of Rock.

Finally, seated in the Hell’s Kitchen restaurant, enjoying the ambience and perusing the menu, the waiter filled our wine glasses. Normally, Famous Actress and I have no loss of conversation; often talking until our jaws hurt; yet on this night, due to the binding agreements we had just signed, caution was the only thing we were thinking about. And then……we saw him, GIANT ROCK STAR entered the room, making his way to the stage. He hadn’t been waiting in the celebrity drenched green room as GIANT ROCK STAR is such a huge celebrity that he had been safely sequestered in his private trailer until he was needed on stage.

As our appetizers came out, Famous Actress told me that she had first met GIANT ROCK STAR years ago when she presented an MTV music award with him. Later, while they were both traveling in Europe, they crossed paths again. At that time her son was a baby, and GIANT ROCK STAR was so enamored with him that he ended up asking to be named as one of her son’s godfathers. (If I had to guess, he was most likely enamored with HER beauty as well!) His promised appearance had been one of the motivating factors for Famous Actress to agree to appear on this episode of Hell’s Kitchen.

At that point, we were about three quarters of the way through the entrée when the waiter came over to top off our glasses, and I, being a red wine lover said yes, at which point Famous Actress blurted out, “yeah give her more, she’s an alcoholic” and giggled as she said it, thinking she was hilarious in her comment. My face froze like I had done botox injections in places where botox doesn’t go. And remembering we had just signed our lives away, through gritted teeth, I uttered… “I can’t believe you just said that”.

FLASH BACK TO…. two days prior….

Famous Actress had come over to my place and we had ordered in Chinese food and were hanging out. When the food arrived, I offered her some red wine, but she had her vitamin water and was fine with that. Now, I like to drink red wine from a straw when I am at home – not because I am a Canadian country hick – but because I whiten my teeth, and drinking from a straw helps to keep my teeth from staining. Famous Actress made no comment about the straw, but when she got up to get some water from the fridge, and opened it up and saw twenty bottles of white wine stacked chilling on the shelves, she couldn’t contain herself and said, “Hon, are you okay? You are drinking wine through a straw and you have enough wine in there to choke a horse.” I laughed and told her the wine was for my friend’s baby shower and my part was supplying the wine, and explained my straw fetish so as to squelch her fears that I had turned into an alcoholic who needed to drink so fast and in such large quantities that a straw was my alternative to an IV drip.

FLASH FORWARD…..back to Hell’s Kitchen….

Okay, so I was now living in my own Hell’s Kitchen worried that Famous Actress’s comment – one, that was truly only funny between us – would not end up on the editing room floor, but rather, be an episode highlight. With both of us on our cautionary tiptoes for the rest of the meal, we still managed to relax and enjoy the rest of the dinner and dessert as Famous Actress had promised to ‘fix’ the ‘alcoholic-comment’ situation after the taping.

At the end dinner, having finished our segment, we decided to retire to the back of the restaurant and hang out at the bar, watching the rest of the taping, as one of the assistant directors had promised to take us back stage and meet Gordon Ramsey in person. As the taping ended and the assistant director started to escort us backstage, GIANT ROCK STAR was also making his exit from the stage and as we were close to crossing paths, Famous Actress gave him a flirty wave to which he replied “I have been waiting for you girls to come up and say hi to me all night.” I had goose bumps as we chatted momentarily with GIANT ROCK STAR, Famous Actress and him catching up, him giving us hugs and kisses before the assistant director pushed us along backstage.

Okay, so meeting Gordon Ramsey was pretty cool in and of itself…but I had just been complimented and hugged and squeezed by GIANT ROCK STAR, and as amazing and interesting as Gordon Ramsey is, GIANT ROCK STAR is…GIANT ROCK STAR! Finally exiting the building, alcoholic comment almost forgotten (almost), we noticed GIANT ROCK STAR was standing outside hanging out with what looked like his assistant. Famous Actress went up to him and after we started a conversation, she asked if she could have a current picture of the two of them to show her son . Feeling like I had nothing to lose, I asked if he would mind if I had a picture as well…..

CUT TO…….introduction….

…..as I nuzzled in beside him, close but not so close as to offend this GIANT ROCK STAR of a man, a man who was generous enough to let me have a photo of the two of us, and as his assistant prepared to take our picture, GIANT ROCK STAR grabbed me and pulled me in towards him face forward and planted a big one smack on my lips as his assistant snagged the shot….

And that was the end of our night, GIANT ROCK STAR had smacked me on the lips and I had the evidence to prove it. As I waited in the car, Famous Actress went as promised to ‘fix’ the ‘alcoholic-comment’ situation; and then, just when I thought the magic was over, a limo slowly crept beside our car…the window rolled down, and GIANT ROCK STAR poked his head out, smiled, looked me in the eyes and waving his fingers one by one, said ‘byyyeee’ as his car drove away.

And that’s is how I met and kissed…….(scroll down…..)

Keep scrolling….

Yep, scroll some more…….

Almost there, its really worth it…….

…….. Steven Tyler…..And all I will say, is …. those lips of his are luscious. Nuff’ said!

Retrograde…literally means, moving backward. The most feared retrograde, at least to us astrology loving chicks (and some guys too), is that nasty little calamity occurring three to four times a year known as …..Mercury in Retrograde.

What does Mercury in Retrograde mean? Well, basically, according to astrology, it means that the planet Mercury – which rules communication, intellect, awareness, and short distance travel – slows down giving the illusion that it is moving backwards. So during Mercury in Retrograde, the positive effects of the planet Mercury have the reverse effects, resulting in: horrible communication, absence of intellect, lack of awareness and travel nightmares. Basically, life as we know it is ….fucked up.

So naturally, during Mercury in Retrograde, I am extra careful. Because on top of the retrograde, I have the added additional astrological stress of being a – Sagittarian. Worse, a November 29th Sagittarian, which means that I am: energetic, adventurous, optimistic, and honest – often brutally honest (brutal being the key word here). So, even on a good day when there is no retrograde, my abundant-energy-adventurous-optimistic nature often makes me absent-minded and I tend to trip, fall and walk into walls that I swear weren’t there. Worse, I have lived life looking upon the shocked look on people’s faces when something honest and true pops out of my mouth in a way that makes the recipient want to crawl into a hole and die. So when Mercury in Retrograde hits, I fear for my life, and the lives of those around me….in every sense of the word.

Well, this past retrograde, even with my well intentioned astrologically warned ‘I must pay attention to every detail’ mind – the SHIT still HIT THE FAN!!!! Where, where, where to begin…..?

Let’s start with Communication….

Sometimes, expressing yourself isn’t always a prudent idea, especially when Mercury is in retrograde and with a Neanderthal Egomaniac that enjoys taunting you at all costs. Let’s call him Scorpio Gym. Scorpio Gym and I have been gym friends for the last six years, approximately 2190 days. Of which I would estimate about 20 percent of these days – 438 or so (my friends might say its higher) – he has rendered me speechless, or teary eyed from his stinging Scorpio comments.

…..comments that he laughs away with a grin on his face, and a sneer on his lip all the while knowing that what he has said – even though he jokes it off as ‘teasing’ – can sting and hurt a sensitive Sagittarian girl. And let’s face it. Comments that are down-right mean!

So a few months ago, after he had been away for the winter hiding out in his desert home, and when the first words that came out of his mouth were ones that put me down, I somehow recovered and managed to continue the conversation until I got home, sat down and thought…why the hell am I allowing this idiot into my air space? Scorpio Gym can be charming, witty, funny, interesting and can actually be helpful when asked, but the snarly-assed-insult-laden mouth of his had finally broken the straw that was my camel’s back.

So I decided….to ignore him. Which I did, quite successfully, I will add. So successfully that it started to be noticed by one of my gym friends, Marty – who was also friendly with Scorpio Gym and whom had also been bitten by his striking venom in the past. Marty suggested I talk to Scorpio Gym and ‘nicely’ explain to him why his remarks bothered me, so as to hopefully clear the air; perhaps allowing him to think before he spewed verbal venom in the future.

So, in the middle of the retrograde cycle, on the stairs of the gym, and hot and sweaty me tried to strike up a conversation and when the words ‘you can be really mean’ were trickling out of my mouth, Scorpio Gym stung back with verbal vengeance so powerful that the result is now a Cold War between Scorpio Gym and little me. Communication, rather miscommunication, at its worst…situation anything but rectified. Mercury in Retrograde….

And then there was the Travel….

Then…. at the end of the work week, five days after the above conversation took place – Mercury still in her full retrograde swing – I was running my last work errand of the week. Sitting on Rodeo Drive in bumper to bumper Beverly-Hills-Friday afternoon traffic, I was contemplating my weekend plans when….SMACK! Something hit my car! Out of my driver’s side window, I noticed a black car racing away, and realized that some idiot had hit me – sideswiped my car – and from the blur of the black it appeared that, no, they weren’t stopping to apologize. A shocked me said out loud…. ‘Oh my God that fucking idiot just hit my car and is taking off.’

I am not sure where my ninga energy came from, but all I remember was opening my car door – leaving it wide open so the other drivers around would realize I was in distress – and I running down Rodeo Drive, iPhone in hand, trying to get a picture of the black blur of a car. I was somewhat in luck because the light had just turned red, and the black blur of a car was stopped ready to turn left as soon as the light turned green.

A frantic me tapped on the window, and this girl looked up, and as she rolled down the window with a dazed look on her face, I blurted out ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ To which she said, ‘Don’t swear at me, leave me alone.’ (Okay, so she may have mistaken me for a blonde crazy homeless person begging for money when I first approached, had she NOT just rammed into someone and ran!!!) I replied, ‘are you fucking kidding me, you just hit my car and now you are taking off, it’s called a hit in run bitch. You need to pull your damn car over now. I have a picture of your plates.’ To which she replied, ‘Oh I didn’t know I hit anything.’ I said, ‘When you pull over, you will see how your car is scratched the hell up all over.’

The now, apologetic black blur of a car driver – knowing she was caught – made her way out of traffic as I ran back to my car and followed her for three blocks until she managed to pull over and call her daddy for help. (Gotta love Beverly Hills when the papa comes a running). Knowing his daughter was guilty of a hit and run, he was a sweet as could be, and a now calmed me – polite and charming as well. (My truck driver mouth only comes out in moments of extreme stress.)

But really, did I need this? I had been in car accident a few months prior, which was my fault, and which had caused my insurance to swell to a point where I seriously thought about selling my car and walking and Ubering for a year or so. Even though I knew that this accident wasn’t my fault, I worried and fretted all weekend long that somehow black blurry car girl would try and twist this around and make it my fault.

Relief only came on Monday afternoon, when the father called and once again apologized and said he was making a claim with his insurance. Relieved, but still, I now had to deal with the whole mess, the estimate, the garage, the rental, the dull and life interrupting details it took to clean up someone else’s mess.

Black blurry car driver’s lack of awareness, and hey, sorry lack of intellect if she ‘really’ didn’t realize she had hit something, had caused a Mercury in Retrograde nightmare travel nightmare for me….

Oh no….now it’s the gadgets that have gone haywire….

Part of Mercury in Retrograde’s charm is that when communication goes awry, it affects communication on all levels…Not just communication between him and her and her and him etc., it causes electronic communications of all kinds to go haywire. Anything related to communication is screwed. In fact, they say not to buy or purchase anything mechanical during this time because you will likely buy….a lemon.

So of course, on the Saturday when my boss was travelling and when all hell was breaking loose because everything that could go wrong was going wrong, I got up to get a nice cold glass of ice water, and I heard this weird beep coming from my alarm. A weird beep followed by a yellow light on the alarm panel. So I went to google the number to the alarm company and noticed I was off line and disconnected. I knew that meant that the internet was down, so I went to call AT&T to see if there was an outage in my area, only to find a dead phone line! And then it dawned on me….I was in a Mercury in Retrograde bundling nightmare. My alarm went through my phone line, and my phone line and my internet were bundled to save money and I was now…..FUCKED!

I frantically called on my cell phone and was of course redirected to AT& T Manila, or was it AT & T Philippines, or was it AT&T Jamaica or was AT&T India? I don’t remember which country I spoke to – but whatever her name was and wherever she was – I tried to explain in a frenetic panicked voice that my technology-dependent life was completely dead and I needed help. She determined – somehow from 10,000 miles away and in broken (yet very very polite) English, that my modem was dead – and that she was happy to let me know that the next available appointment for a technician to come out and fix my problem was the following Thursday from 8 to 12 noon.

I pleaded, I begged, I offered to go to a distributor and purchase a modem myself…but no matter how hard I tried, the only solution was the long waiting game. A five days out, plus taking time off work to stay home and wait and hope that they showed up and were able to fix it, kind of a waiting game.

My technology-dependent life crumbled before my eyes. I was suddenly grateful that I hadn’t bundled my cable with everything else, because even though my ability to work was impeded completely – okay sorry, working from your iPhone is limited at best, and oh yeah…my iPad needed the wifi, which wasn’t working so that wasn’t an option either – at least I still had Time Warner Cable and Tevo. And wine, I still had wine. The universe wasn’t dead, just greatly interrupted. Mercury in Retrograde…..

And that is when……

I looked up Mercury in Retrograde on my Safari on my iPhone, and saw that I still had at least 6 days left to deal with its challenging effects, and decided that maybe some isolation time by myself would be healing. Time by myself, making exception of course for my friends at ABC, NBC, CBS, FOX and Lifetime – and my other friend I like to call, Cabernet.